Inanimate
by scullyseviltwin
Summary: She was taken by him he was taken by her... and I just loved watching the both of them.


_Thanks to Kirsten, Inc for the idea and for the beta. She is a very bad influence. This is really different from what I usually write.

* * *

_It began a long time ago, at my first glimpse of his hands. They were smoother than they are now, some corners and creases still possessing the ability to be delicately smooth. Back then, when he would touch me it would be carefully, as if I were a foreign object, as if I would break if he put too much weight on me.

He is a beautiful man, truly, but the way he goes about touching me–it's amazing. Fingers trail, never catch, place lightly and often don't let up for long minutes. A gentle massage perhaps, I can't wait for his hands to come back to me.

Sometimes I'm without him for days. It's torture, sheer and sure. And then sometimes he doesn't apply enough pressure, doesn't feel me like he knows I'm there.

Back when he was gentle with me, every day, all the time, his palms were cool and sure. Slipping and sliding as if they knew _just_ where to go, just what to grasp, what to pluck. Now they're slightly sweaty and twitchy, especially when she's around. The moisture, the heat, it seeps through the paper and touches my surface and it confuses me. He never loses his composure like this, why should he when she's around.

My wonderment ceased to exist when _she_ touched me.

He lays something out, but he's not paying attention to how it looks on me, he's not paying attention to me anymore. He's paying attention to her. I am too, can't help it. She's touching me, somehow touching him... There's something beneath her skin that seems to seep through her pores. I want to know what it is, it's something I wonder about constantly.

Thin fingers, thin but strong and they cut lightly on me. It was a simple lean, the time she touched me. She asked what he was working on and that–right then, when his fingers began to dig into the hard surface–that was when his palm began to perspire.

If I could have laughed, I would have.

The next time she came and placed her hand on me, when he was in the room, her fingers dug deeper, tried to grab a piece and hold on. Scratching against my surface, attempting to burrow in; her hand toyed across me easily as she spoke, a welcome diversion I'm sure, for her addled mind.

She was taken by him; he was taken by her... and I just loved watching the both of them.

There isn't the 'now and forever' brand from his fingertips like there is from her hand. There isn't a promise in his touch, just a fleeting rush of feeling. She, well she reaches right down to the soul, _right_ down, and soothes instead of carefully ripping it out. Oh when she comes to me now...

Smooth, the way she laid down letters, spelling out a word with implications glittering in her eyes. And when he looked at her, and I looked at them, I felt his knee thump right into me and my entire being smiled because this was simply what the heat I felt on my surface really looked like, what it felt like.

When she and I are alone together, she is even more quiet then he is. Though he is silent when alone, she folds in on herself, drags things across me, taps out a rhythm that nearly lulls me. But I can't drift off, I have to watch her. I have to concentrate on feeling the short nails skating over my edges, clipping me as she reaches for a piece of paper.

It's a gratification, as if I've done something good and she's rewarding me with a token of pressure.

He feels like sandpaper to me after he's worked in the desert but she never does. Her hands are still cool and sure, always with a bit more pressure. It's her agitation, she's pressing it out onto my cool surface so it doesn't seep into her gaze. I don't think he'd even notice if it did.

When she pushes right down, slams her skin down when she's really frustrated, when she wants it all over. His grip on the glass lets up and I can't quite see the ridges of his fingertips like I usually do. When she is hard, he is soft. When he is hard, she is harder.

When they both touched me that first time, oh the heat. It was this amazing swirl of texture and temperature and I couldn't figure out who was who. Skin, so amazing and unique... but temperature, the two of them pressing down against me, scalding.

It's like a chemical reaction, the two of them combining to create this fantastic starburst of radiating heat. Another gratification for me, I think.

Over the past few years they let their palms lay down closer and closer to the other.

It's her hands this time, they're pointed backwards, fingertips towards my center. One of his hands is right alongside her right one, his forward. And it hits me then. Backed up, he has her backed up against me. Her backside, the slight swell of it is pressed into the sharp edge. That must be it...

And it is, he's kissing her, right there in front of me, practically on me. And her always cool fingers are perspiring just like his, they're sliding back and across and she's falling. He catches her with his other hand and holds her upright as he moves his lips over hers.

When she cries out, he disengages but his hand stays put. Hers don't, they're on him, pressing on his chest, one right over his heart. He kissed her at work. That's not good, that means he's lost control, I can tell my the way his hand is every so slightly twitching to the right, like it wants to remove itself.

And he doesn't care, Grissom doesn't care. He pushes her back harder, kisses her harder and somehow they fumble and flick my switch off, sending their little debacle into darkness.

And I can't see anymore, I can only feel.

* * *

_Damn lucky layout table. I want Griss and Sara to make out on top of me! Wait... no... huh? Does that even make SENSE?_


End file.
